


From the Ashes

by quizzletriangle3



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Adventure, Death, M/M, hetagames, sadness is arriving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:59:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2446265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quizzletriangle3/pseuds/quizzletriangle3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He found it a little weird how when they first saw Katniss he claimed her a hero, someone who could help them. Now he blamed her for everything, even though all she probably did was die after launching that arrow, causing the games to end suddenly." "He was so close, close to the end, this was supposed to be his final year. How could this have happened?" "This was a new low for the Capitol." "He started to see more red, but it pooled on the ground, his vision grew darker, like he was in a cell. Screams echoed around a room, the stench of copper familiarly filled his nose; ash coated the room." "How do we even die?" "Trais was screwed and she knew it and it took every fiber in her being to not break down in front of the entire audience and just give up." "Not knowing what to do or why, Flash spread his arms out to his sides, tilting his head slightly back to feel the wind of the ride encase him. This was his form of redemption. With grace, he could win."</p>
<p>It has been decades since they've had to fight that bastard, Panem. Decades since they've had to hide and never know if they had someone else out there, someone waiting for them. Now its the 85th annual Hunger Games; can they survive? And who is they, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Going to the Center

**District 1:**

  
It was the third time he had been twenty-one, the third time he’d been forced to let his name enter the crystal bowl, risking his life and his reveal. Walking through the streets was peaceful for a Reaping Day, a few people risking small waves to the small kind-hearted man. The life of luxury was a blessing he praised each day as it let him have an easier transition into this hell. Reaching for his necklace, a token from his past, he stroked the cool faded metal, making his heart beat at an easier rate as he made his way over to the square.

“Hey, Flash!” someone called from behind.

His hand immediately dropped from his necklace, and he turned around, only to be greeted by a bright smile and kind brown eyes. He sighed in relief, “Oh, thank heaven. Hey, Flare.”

Flare’s hand rested on Flash’s shoulder, steering him back around to continue on to the square. “You ready for our final year in the Reaping before the real luxury begins?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Hey,” said Flare, moving in front of Flash and causing them to stop.

“What?” Flash asked, eyebrow raised.

“Aren't you excited?” Flare’s eyes gleamed with joy at the idea of no longer having his name in that damned bowl.

Flash sighed in response. “Yeah, it’s just,” he shrugged.

“Just what?” Flare piqued, pulling them both forward so the crowd could keep moving.

“Just,” he reached for his words, not really wanting to explain how this wasn’t his first time having his name ‘leave’ the bowl. And how it probably wasn’t his last. “I don’t know. I’ve just been thinking about how sad all of this is, you know?”

Flare silenced him, nodding slightly, “Yeah, but we shouldn’t dwell on that. It’s also not safe to, you know.” He stated more than asked.

It seemed as if Flash was leading an export in sighs as compared to fancy soap and minerals today.

They finally made it to the square and waited, conversing quietly until the Capitol’s representation made their way on the stage.

**District 2:**

  
Stringent and his sister, Sinestra, made their way over to the Reaping ceremony being held in the town square. Everywhere people were getting themselves pumped up, ready to volunteer if they saw themselves as a better option to win the games. They only stalked along silently, repelling the festive mood and expelling their own chilling spirits that caused them to have a two-foot radius of space between them and the other citizens. As he walked along, he smiled at the attitudes of the people around him, creating merry with the preparation of the 85th annual Hunger Games. His own version of joy managed to steer more people away from him and his sister rather than have them invite the two to join in on the amusement.

After finally reaching the outskirts of the gathering , they waited for the representative to make their entrance and enlighten the audience as to whom was going to enter the games. The silence between the siblings ensued, hatred filling their hearts as the anthem played.

**District 3:**

  
Work was being let out early, and thank whoever above for that since Beadz was about to pass out from a lack of sleep the night prior. And falling asleep in the auto factory isn’t a smart idea when you focus mainly on welding.

It was a surprisingly cold day for mid-July, yet Beadz didn’t have a jacket in his possession, a shame, but not something that was considered uncommon. Everyone rushed by, trying to clean themselves up from the car oil and grease that stained every and all outfits, a sign of working in the factory.

Holding his arms closer to his chest, he brushed past a couple trying to calm down their child who was breathing heavily, fogging up his glasses as his hands covered his mouth. “Poor kid,” he muttered into the wind, thinking of his own little brother, wishing he had done more to help him, make sure he had made it out of- his heart clenched and his thoughts seized to continue as tears rimmed his eyes.

He heaved a sigh and pushed forward. He had to move on, keep living; it's what his brother would have wanted, for him to live, make sure that he experienced life for him. As he walked along he saw people stare at him; this was also something that wasn’t uncommon in his district. Sure, a lot of people were pale due to having to work inside constantly, yet Beadz was, well, really pale. With red eyes. And that caused people to stare. Often. He, of course, was used to this as it wasn’t anything new, in fact, it was centuries old for him. He smiled, thinking back to the times that when people stared, he would gore them in the name of Christ.

The anthem began to ring throughout the district and Beadz hurried his pace, allowing more heat to warm up his freezing body; along with hatred running through his veins.

**District 4:**

  
A warm breeze blew across the sea as Michelle ran her toes through the surface of the water. The bobber floated on the water, rocking along with the waves. It was just so peaceful. A real shame that it was Reaping day.

A slight tugging was felt through the string and Michelle slowly reeled in her catch, pulling in a small blue catfish. Peter tugged on her sleeve, admiring her catching ability. She smiled softly at the praise yet wished that he would be able to take in his own catch. They had been here how many years? And didn’t he fish when he was on that oil rig he bragged so much about at dinner as they basked in their memories of old?

She shook her head and sighed, looking at Peter’s line. Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked closer. “Peter,” she interrupted the young looking boy, getting him to look where her eyes rested. “Did you put a bobber on today?”

“Of course, I always put my bobber on, silly.” He said smugly, pointing to himself and standing a little.

“Then where is it, hm?” She retorted, looking back up at him, a smug look crowning her face as his fell.

“What?”

“It’s gone, Peter,” she said, pointing at the sea where his line met the water. A sudden noise caught their attention, the scream of the reel as the line was pulled further into the sea, bending the old wooden pole over the pier.

“Oh gosh!” He shouted, jumping at the pole and pulling it back. “Help… me…” he gasped out, struggling with the fish on the other end.

Michelle sighed and stood up, reaching around Peter to get a good hold on the pole, gripping tight. “Dang,” she huffed. “This fish is putting up a major fight.” Adrenaline pulsed through her veins, finally an exciting catch! Maybe it was one of the rare sharks that swam into the bay on occasion, they could definitely use the money, seeing as they provided for themselves. They hadn’t been lying technically when they were found (for the fifth time, being young forever was hard work and involved dying a lot), and claimed themselves as orphans.

A fin broke the surface below the pier and Michelle gasped. Finally! The adrenaline coursing through her body encouraged her to pull harder, the big stupid fish slowly but surely giving up. The sound of feet pounding across the pier went unheard until the owner of said feet crashed into the pair, almost sending Peter off the deck and causing the duo to drop the pole, allowing their catch to escape. Michelle turned on the clutz, rage in her eyes. “What the Hell?” she roared, causing the small man to jump back. “We were just about to CATCH a SHARK, you worthless piece of-” Peter held her back, one hand on her mouth to prevent her from cursing off on the man.

The man held up his hands, backing up slowly. “S-sorry, its just the reaping is going to start soon so…” he nodded his head in an apologetic manner, almost as if his head were trying to catch the small waves below them but with an expression that said ‘I tried to be helpful but I didn’t know I’d actually be more trouble than good…’

Michelle sighed and looked back to the water, the pole and the fin both lost to the sea. She turned back and found the space the man had once stood in empty. Damn, she thought, we really could have used the money.

She straightened up the rest of their things, leaving them on the pier so they could return to them later. She straightened Peter’s shirt as he fixed her hair back into their red bows, and together they walked off toward the main trade square to find out the fate of two innocent people, destined to die.

 **District 5:**  
Info N/A

**District 6:**

  
He sat in the main office building, basking in the air-conditioning. His eyes remained closed as one hand remained wrapped around his drink. To anyone looking at him as they passed would think he was trying to forget his time in the games, and that would be reasonable, his had been especially bloody. But no one would understand that he was trying to forget something even more horrifying than his games. The way the sun shone on that blonde hair, his expressive blue eyes looking at him, inviting him to join in on whatever sport he had been playing.

A sigh escaped his mouth as he itched at his brow, he needed to get them plucked again soon or- well, he didn’t really remember at the moment or care. You go alcohol, his mind rooted, you’re doing your job well.

The shuffling of feet could be heard outside the room yet he didn’t turn to the door, not even when it gently swung open, the hinges creaking slightly. “Um, sir.” The mayor, he recognized that shy voice, always trying to make sure not to enrage or startle the frequent drunk.

“I know,” Haulard replied, voice raspy from yelling at his dreams last night.

“Alright, be there when you’re ready,” and he shut the door.

Haulard knew that meant be there in five minutes but it was still nice that he didn’t want to directly rush the victor.

Sighing again, he took the shot, letting the feeling of alcohol further the burn in his throat, distracting him more from the pain in his heart and mind, and he headed off to greet more failures and prep them for doom. He definitely felt the odds in his favor...

**District 7:**

  
Sweat glistened on his skin in the summer light, cooling him off slightly as he wiped a hand across his forehead, dragging away the offending liquid and offering little to cool his skin further. He lifted the axe off the ground, leaving a slight indent where the blade sliced into the forest floor. Sun reflected off the steel as he hefted it into the air, swinging it down with incredible force that took years to H, slicing through the rest of the wood that took decades more practice to grace.

The stalk of wood creaked as it fell, leaving Coppice to watch it as it fell down to the earth, taking a few branches off of the trees surrounding it. One hand held the axe as it rested in the soft ground again, the other rested above his brow, covering his eyes from the light so he could have a clearer image of the wood as it crashed. A loud thump was heard throughout the area as the basswood crashed into the ground. Coppice let out a deep breath, preparing him to carry the wood out to the clearance zone. After stretching a little to prepare his muscles and chaining the axe to the tree so he wouldn’t have to make two trips, Coppice began making the journey to the clearance, sweat pouring out of him as he carried the heavy lumber.

Everyone believed that Coppice just trained a lot with the wood, allowing him to carry the trees on his own. Others believe that he was trained to do this kind of labor since he was a babe. In reality, which no one would believe, even if he admitted it true, was he just had a lot of leftover strength from being what was once a very tree riddled nation. As he traveled on across the dirt-packed terrain, leaving an imprint in the ground behind him, Coppice thought about his old home and its beautiful forests that once graced the land. He hoped dearly that one day he would be able to return to his land, but he saw it naught to be able to come true, so he made up for it by constantly working with the trees, pretending he was home, and that his friends were there with him, just playing a really good game of hide-and-seek.

Coppice sighed, continuing to drag the lumber through the earth, thinking about his old copper-haired friend and how he tried to entice the blonde man on more than one occasion to skip work and play the silly game. That was before- he sucked in air, holding back the tears that begged to fall. Before he realized how precious that time with him was.

Breathing hard through his nose, he pushed on, trying to forget the pain, but remember the joy he had once felt so rarely. His throat tightened, the muscles beginning to itch for a release, his vision becoming blind as he trudged on. His breathing became uncontrollable, his lungs heaving air in and out, he finally dropped the tree, falling to his knees, and tugged at his hair painfully. Sobs racked his body,causing him to fall further to the ground, a hand covering his mouth, trying to contain the pained gasps escaping his mouth. The flash of auburn crossed his vision, but he knew it wasn’t really his friend, it was just his mind, or a bird. He started to see more red, but it pooled on the ground, his vision grew darker, like he was in a cell. Screams echoed around a room, the stench of copper familiarily filled his nose; ash coated the room. The echo of a sharp cry filled his hearing until he realized it was his own, and he forced himself up, breathing hard and raggad. A hand went through his hair, the other patting at his sticky shirt, making sure that is was sticky from sweat and not from- he couldn’t afford to think about that. He wiped fiercely at his eyes, drying them quickly, trying to forget his episode as soon as he could.

After another five or so minutes, Coppice found himself following his little trail once more, dragging the tree behind him, going toward the clearance once again. He really needed to wash himself and change before the Reaping began, he thought, looking toward the sky to determine how much time he had left before he needed to be at his final Reaping.

**District 8:**

  
“You know,” began Betsy, for what seemed around the hundredth time to Cecil. “When I heard of this place I had such great hopes for it.” He stated, pulling the almost finished shirt onto his lap, away from the machine it was supposed to be under.

“Mhm,” hummed along Cecil, focusing on the stitch he was finishing.

“So, when we like, got here,” he continued, “I thought we would have the greatest clothes, right?” Cecil hummed again, motivating Betsy to continue his rant. “I didn’t know we would be making them for other people. I thought that like, we would be able to keep them, or at least some cute fabric. But no, instead we wear these,” he said, tugging at the baby blue uniforms, a disappointed look plastered across his face.

“I know,” replied Cecil, as he always did when his friend got to this point.

“I mean like,” he continued on, ignoring the comment, “it’s totally ridiculous. And a disgrace to mankind. Why should I, of all people, be forced to do this labor? I like, totally deserve more respect, right?”

Cecil looked up at his partner, thankful that they worked in the corner away from the guards and surveillance so they could talk quietly about whatever they pleased.

Betsy only stared back, a look of ‘well, fuck you too,’ slipping onto his face. “Anyway.” Damn, he sure was a chatter mouth, but at least he started to sew again, thought Cecil. “It’s a real disgrace, me being in this garb.” He sighed, chin resting on his open palm, foot still pressed on the pedal, sewing everything together. Cecil raised a brow and opened his mouth, about to make a remark on how Betsy would have to start over, but was interrupted again. “I wish we were back home.”

At that moment the doors of the factory slammed open, the shadowed figure of their boss in the doorway. “Reaping is going to start in ten-minus 30 minutes, get going.” His voice boomed across the room, halting all the workers from sewing their garments. Everyone began to stop work and pack their bags, planning to stop at home to change into more presentable attire.

“Thank God for that.” breathed Betsy, looking at the mess of a shirt he created.

Cecil snorted, and stood up, grabbing his bag and looked back at his long-time friend. “Ready?” he asked, holding a hand out for him.

“Yes, thank you.” Betsy replied, grabbing it to stand up.

“No problem,” said Cecil, walking ahead of the duo to the doors so they could head home and change. There was a reason everyone thought they were together, thought Cecil with exasperation. But he was still pleased to have someone who understood his pain with him. Together, they walked out the doors and into the district streets.

 **District 9:**  
Info N/A

**District 10:**

  
Running was usually an experience best felt after a good stretch, thought Antonio as he ran. He didn’t exactly have that privilege at the moment, after all, this had been pretty sudden. His feet carried him across the trampled earth, the sound of thunder behind him. Adrenaline pumped through his very essence, pushing him along. Even as his breathing became ragged, he moved along, not wanting to getting trampled by the heavy body masses chasing after him. He knew he should just dive out of the way like the people on the terrain in front of him, but he couldn’t pull himself away, it had been so long since he enjoyed this. Encierro. The running of the bulls. He noted, of course, that it was a couple more than the traditional number of a dozen, but he didn’t care, his heart was filled with the sense of pursuit and absolute joy, his air trying to force itself in and out of his lungs.

Passing by a fence, he noticed that there were a few girls sitting around, wondering what was going on. Once they saw him they either got a look of terror to see the apple of everyone’s eye running for his life or they got a look of praise and desire, encouraging him to move along, rooting at his every footfall that pulled him ahead of the bulls. As he went by, he winked and did a slight wave, causing one girl to faint and the others to fall back and clutch their breasts. He chuckled as he continued on, loving the praise he got and the memories of centuries of runs filling his head.

Making his way to the city he thought about how much he wished his tomate precio- mierda. His heart skidded a bit and he ducked into an alleyway, evading the bulls as they would have caught up with him.

Noises of crashing and screams filled the streets as the bulls continued on their journey, and Antonio laughed, tilting his head back onto the smooth concrete wall. He sniffled as he thought of his tomate. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, wishing that he could have been there to see him run, maybe even tackle him into a hug and spin him around, chanting about how he survived the dreaded Encierro. He wiped tears away from his eyes as walked into the street, shoving his hands into his pockets, the adrenaline and joy of the run wearing off.

“Well,” he thought, “might as well head to the square, Reaping will start soon anyway…” And he trudged along; both the men and the women who saw him felt pity grip their hearts as the usually bright man walked slowly down the street.

**District 11:**

  
Chhht! The branch shook slightly, the pull that released the peach causing its quake. Checking the fruit for any bruises and bug burrows, he shoved the fruit inside his bag, continuing to climb after relieving the branch of its yield.

“Going higher, Grist?” someone from below called up.

“Yeah,” he shouted, looking below him for the caller, “what’s it to you, bastard?”

“Wouldn’t talk to your peace-keeper that way if I were you.” He called back up, shaking the bottom branches of the tree slightly.

“I can speak however I please since I get food for your table.” He retorted, resuming his climb to fetch more fruit.

“Tch,” Grist could hear the other mutter below.

“Don’t know how to comeback, now do ya, bastard?” He said, pulling another fruit from the tree.

“Maybe,” he mumbled. “How many more you gonna get before we head over to the square?”

“How many more do you need for me to be free for the day?” Grist called back.

“If I say that you’re free today can we go back?”

Grist mulled it over, picking another fruit, but this time, shoved it in his pocket, hiding it from any prying eyes. “Sure,” he finally replied, starting to climb back down.

Once on the ground, Creel, the peace-keeper in charge of guarding him, grabbed his elbow, took his bag, and led them both out of the orchard. He wasn’t as forceful as some of the other guards that had been in charge of him before, but that didn’t mean Grist liked him. “I can walk myself, bastard.” He said, trying to pry his elbow free.

“I know, but I’d rather not have to beat you like last time.”

“Tch,” he replied, remembering the bruises the damned stick had left, “Then let me walk until we get there.”

Creel heaved a dramatic sigh and released Grist’s elbow. “But,” he pointed at Grist’s pockets, “I get one.”

Another dramatic sigh ensued, but this time from the other party. “Fine.”

The pair continued to walk to the town, Grist having his elbow privileges taken from him until further notice when they walked in. The other guards only nodded, as they passed, making sure the safety was able to be removed efficiently if needed. They stopped at Grist’s hut before entering the town, allowing him a chance to change for the Reaping, and for him to hand one of the peaches over to Creel, who stuffed it in his own pocket. After storing the rest, they walked into the town and waited for the ‘ceremony’ to start.

“Only one more year after this,” sang Creel.

“Yeah, yeah. Until you’re rid of me. That’s all everyone wants.” Grist bitterly replied.

“I was saying until you don’t have to do this anymore.” He retorted just as bitterly back. “And you’ll never be rid of me, no matter what, you stupid shit-stain.”

Grist smiled. Even if it was pathetic, with his only friend being his ‘probation’ officer, but at least he still had a friend after all these years. He would never tell him that though, ‘cause fuck that bastard.

**District 12:**

  
The damned rooster needs to die, was the first thought that ran through Quarry as he pushed his stiff body up, adjusting to the still brisk dawn, joints popping and bones creaking as he stretched. He heard a shuffle next to him and he tried to be more quiet so as not to wake his brother, who somehow managed to sleep through the rooster call, even though it was his idea to get it. Taking a deep breath, he hoovered his bare feet above to floorboards, mentally preparing himself for the cold.

It wasn’t enough. They really should invest in thicker socks, thought Quarry, yet he knew that they needed to pay for bigger and more important things like food and medicine for their patients. Well, not his patients, but they still needed medicine. Getting herbs used to be easier a little over ten years ago, but then again, they had a different head in charge.

Stupid Katniss, what did she think, only she and that Gabe or whatever kid used the forest? It was a major provider of their herbs and supplies like that. Good thing she’s gone, can’t cause any more trouble for us here, he remarked silently.

As he boiled some water he and his brother had stored, he pulled on his jumper, placing his boots on his feet and helmet on his already dusty head. Turning the fire off, he thought about what a shame it was that Katniss disappeared after her Quarter Quell went to shit, mainly for her family, who gave up medicine, allowing Quarry and his brother, Curey, easier access to making money by being one of the only ‘doctors’ left.

He checked on his brother’s sleeping form one last time before walking out of their small hut, heading toward the mine to make at least a little bit of money before the Reaping took away his workday.

-

The sun hit his eyelids and he woke up with a start. Why didn’t he hear that damned rooster? They should probably kill it since it wasn’t doing it’s jo- well, it sorta was, Curey thought out, realizing his brother had already left for work. There was a slight heat in the room and he walked into the kitchen, braving the dirty and cold wooden floor, and found water already heated for him. He smiled softly, telepathically thanking his brother.

He would never say it to his brother’s face but he did make life a lot easier for Curey no matter how much got in their way. After the fence remained electrified, even after the death of their skeptical victors (except the drunk one), Quarry managed to get the needed herbs for his brother to continue his practice of medicine to make some money. How he did it he didn’t know, nor did he want to know, but his brother also managed to get that damned rooster, and some chickens so they could sell eggs. His brother had done a lot, and despite his egotistical past and self-proclaimed heroism, he truly was a hero. One who sacrificed so much, even after his own country had been stolen from him, from the harassment to the direct bullet, he sacrificed so much.

After making some more paste to cure fevers, he heard a soft knock on his door, alerting him of his first patient that day. Upon opening the door, he saw a small girl of possibly seven, carrying a boy no older than what appeared to be three. “Please help,” she whispered. Curey ushered her in, taking the smaller child from her arms and placed him on the extra cot (another sacrifice Quarry had made to get for his practice), he then guided her to the small table that had taken a month of building to get (also built by Quarry, who stayed up late just to make it).

As he got a smaller pot out and dunked it into the water, the girl sniffled silently, letting tears roll down her face. Noticing the tears, he placed the small pot down, started a quick fire on the stove and walked over to her. “So, why did you bring him?”

She looked up, gray eyes pooled with tears, hair matted and frizzed. “He won’t get up, and he has a fever. Has had one for a few days.” Her voice barely carried two inches in front of her, but Curey could hear her, having had that problem before.

“Alright,” he said, adding some animal fat to the water to create a broth, mixing in some mint leaves as well to add a slight coolant for the fever. He grabbed the paste he made prior the girl’s arrival and walked over to the boy, adding a heavy dosage to his forehead and a damp cloth to drape over the paste to keep it from running. He returned to the broth, pulling out two bowls to fill and give to the children. He turned and handed one to the girl, and when she refused he placed it on her lap gently, and told her to eat, placing a slice of bread beside her on the table.

As he went to feed the small boy, he heard her slurp down the broth, spoon forgotten in her lap as she ate greedily. He smiled and sat the boy up slightly, so as the child would not choke on the broth.

Eventually the child woke up, his fever broken, and the kids were able to leave, making it back to their home in time to prep for the Reaping.

The door opened slowly and Curey looked back to see his brother saunter through, waving what looked like a small pouch that jingled as he shook it in Curey’s face. “Look at what I got!” His brother bragged. There was the old spirit, the one that brought back the past, making them forget the present.

“Is it your pay?” Curey inquired, returning to cleaning the bowls the children had used, hearing the tinkling of coins go into the small jar they owned, full of their savings over the decades. Thankfully the money never changed, sadly, neither did they.

“Yup!” His brother replied, pride beaming on his face. “Any patients today?”

Curey nodded, “A couple children, one had a fever and wouldn’t wake up.”

Quarry nodded, concern on his face, “Are they alright now or?” He didn’t finish his thought.

Curey turned, finishing drying and returning the bowls to their spots, “They’re fine, the boy woke up and now they, well. You know.” Quarry nodded. Being ill didn’t excuse you from the games. Only death did that.

“I’m gonna get ready.” Quarry announced, heading for the small basin they had for washing themselves. Curey only nodded, heading to their dresser to get dressed himself.

-

Quarry tried to tame his hair, always struggling with the nantucket, and finally gave up. He didn’t care though, it just reminded him of the glory days. As did his glasses, the lenses basically nonexistent in some of the corners, the rims faded and the holders ready to fall out of the screws any moment.

After they both finished dressing up in their blue button ups and matching faded jeans, they walked out the door, down to the square. “I still think that it’s bullshit they increased the age to twenty-one, and all because of the damned Quarter Quell,” Quarry whispered to his brother as they neared the square.

His brother only sighed, “At least its our final year, eh?”

Quarry huffed, “Yeah, but for how much longer? When will we need to hide again? Wait until we aren’t remembered and then come back, only to find out that starting over is harder than before?”

Curey didn’t have any reply, nor should he, for if he did, his brother would only get madder. He found it a little weird how when they first saw Katniss he claimed her a hero, someone who could help them. Now he blamed her for everything, even though all she probably did was die after launching that arrow, causing the games to end suddenly. Curey continued to walk on in silence as he and his brother got their fingers pricked; even as they waited for the ceremony to begin he remained in silence while dread filled his heart. This was gonna be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Guys!  
> If anyone is confused just let me know anywhere in the comments or on tumblr (egderpsenpai413). I'll try to update this as soon as I can, but I have AP classes and a play coming up so, hopefully it'll come soon.
> 
> Thanks for reading and hope to update soon!
> 
> FYI: All the trees and animals I mentioned, I did research on to make sure they were grown in the areas that the districts are believed to be, if you want the link, let me know or I'll edit it in later.


	2. Reapings to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been so long since the last update and I was stumped for awhile. That wasn't fair to you guys, so I hope you enjoy the next chapter and three should be coming soon.

**District 1:**

The representation waltzed across the stage, their facial skin pulled so far back it looked as if their mouth could actually speak out of on top of their head. Flash recognized him behind all the prosthetics and remembered when the man first started around fifty games ago. The old life of a capitol member was something to envy, but it was something Flash wished he didn’t have sometimes. He truly was lucky to have a friend in this ‘life.’

“Welcome to the 85th annual Hunger Games!” The man boomed into the microphone, causing the audience to cringe slightly at the sudden noise.

“He knows he doesn’t need to shout into a microphone, right?” Flare asked Flash, leaning closer to his ear.

“I think some of the ‘medical engineering,’” Flash replied, adding air quotes, “messed up his hearing capabilities.” He pulled back some of his skin, making his eyes angle to imitate the man prancing onstage. Flare snorted, attracting the attention of a few people in front of them. Pulling a straight face they turned around confused, causing Flash to giggle. He definitely missed the joking that had existed decades ago, lost in the suffrage of loneliness in the past century, but at least he still had a friend to mess around with now.

They returned their attention to the man on the stage who was pointing at the large screen to the right of him, asking for the district’s attention as the President’s message was played.

At the sight of the president, Flash’s stomach churned, bile threatening to expel from him at the sight of the dreaded man that had stolen every nation’s right and freedom. The one who sent him into the spiral of depression, the one who sentenced all these innocent to death so as to create less of a risk of losing his empire.

Flash didn't realize he was glaring until Flare gently elbowed his side and pointed at the camera scanning the crowd. Relaxing his emotions, he focused back on the screen but not at its content.

After it finally ended, the representative spoke up again, claiming his praise to the Capitol and the president. It took all of Flash’s restraint but he managed not to roll his eyes as the man managed to kiss ‘major ass,’ as Flare had joked about a moment before. A smile broke across Flash’s face, and stayed a little bit after the man onstage announced the beginning of the drawings.

He walked over to the first bowl, which contained all the female names. After dipping his hand in and dramatically stirring the names around, he grabbed a slip and read off the name, “Coruscate Glade!” The man sang out, a smile forever on his altered face. A small yet well-built girl of about eightteen made her way to the stage, a look of pride glued to her face. Her confidence filled the square, causing a few people to cheer her on as she walked up, shaking the man’s hand, probably the only unaltered part of his body; although, even that was doubtful.

She stepped back so the official spokesman for District one could pick the next name, her shoulders back and chin up, eyes searching confidently through the crowd, looking for her opponent.

As the altered man reached into the male’s crystal bowl, Flash felt queasy, his hand clenching his stomach. Flare glanced over and leaned down, “You ok?”

Flash nodded, seeing the slip grasped in the man’s hand. His stomach flopped and he didn’t know why until the man read off the white slip, “Flash Venus.”

Everything began to turn and his vision began to go white as his heart picked up in pace, his stomach threatening to spill everything that resided in there. He barely felt Flare wrap his hands around his arms, shaking him slightly, trying to get his attention. All these years, Flash thought. All these years of hiding and hoping, now I’m going to go to slaughter…

Flare’s eyes widened in what felt like slow motion as Flash’s back arched back, then snapped forward, his stomach no longer being able to hold in his anxiety. Oh God, he was chosen, oh GOD. Flare had his hands holding Flash up as he continued to heave whatever was left inside of him until he finally managed to dry heave and collapse back into Flare’s arms.

Flare guided him along to the stage, evading the mess that had left his friend a moment before. As they reached the stage, Flare let the smaller man use a small kerchief he had in his pocket before letting him walk up onto the stage.

He felt as if his body was moving on autopilot, his mind watching him from above as he walked over, shaking the hand of the man trying to hide his obvious disgust with Flash’s reaction. Flash looked out into the crowd, seeing expressions of sadness, pity, sorrow and disgust (mainly by those he threw up on), as they looked into his pleading eyes, brimming with the threat of tears. He looked out again and saw his only true friend staring back at him, a small thumbs up geared towards him. He smiled slightly, holding back the tears; he had to be strong, not for himself, but for Flare. He didn’t want him being disgraced for befriending a weakling like him.

Suddenly, everyone in the crowd grabbed a piece of their jewelry, kissed it, a held it over their hearts. It was an expression usually done at funerals for the sorrow they felt and showing their love as their beloved left this life; or it was done at weddings, to wish the couple luck on their journey through life, granting them grace needed to survive. Tears began to pool again, he knew that these people thought he was a good man, but he never would have thought they’d wish him luck in these Game’s.

After everyone put their jewelry back on, the tributes were led to a room in the District’s capitol building so they could say their final goodbyes to those that wanted to see them. After swishing around some water to clear the foul taste from his mouth, Flash sat waiting for people to say goodbye. Many people tried to see him off and wish him luck but the one person he really wanted to say goodbye to came last, granting them three minutes for a peaceful farewell.

“Hey,” Flare said, closing the door behind him. He found himself tackled against the wall, the air being hugged out of him as tears stained his clothes. “H-hey, hey, calm down,” he cooed, rubbing small circles in the smaller man’s back, managing to calm down the sobs.

“I-I jus-st w-want you to kn-know that yo-ou were my best fr-friend here.” Flash cried into the other man’s chest.

Flare just rested his chin on the top of the other’s head, patting his back with one hand as the other brushed through the other’s auburn hair. “I know, you were my best friend too.” His voice caught at the end of his words. The auburn haired man looked up and stared into the other’s brown eyes, noticing the gold reflected by the light in his blond hair. His hands snaked around his neck and pulled him closer until their lips met. They both pulled back a few seconds later, Flash hiding his face in his friend’s chest. “Sorry,” he breathed into the other’s shirt, “I just, yeah.”

“Yeah,” Flare choked out, blinking slowly. “Wow.”

A minute later a knock echoed into the room and Flare detached himself from the other, opening the door. “Time’s up,” a man in white spoke, a peacekeeper.

“Okay,” Flare murmured. He walked out and turned suddenly, “I’m rooting for you, got it?”

Flash smiled, looking back at his friend, thankful he wasn’t going to leave him so soon.

 

**District 2:**

After the anthem ended, a stiff-looking woman stepped on the stage, looking out into the audience with condescension. Sinestra sneered back, glaring daggers at the woman who didn’t notice that someone in the back wished for her and thousands of others deaths’. The woman began her speech, her black lips moving stiffly. They wouldn’t be able to see the lottery that just took place in District one until later with the reruns, so they moved right on into the name picking. Sinestra preferred District two for mainly this reason, it’s Reaping was fast and to the point, the only drama being the volunteering.

The woman reached into the male’s bowl first, her long black nails grasping one of the top pieces instead of stirring around in the bowl. She pulled it out and Sinestra and her brother remained silent, waiting for the woman to announce the name.

“Stringent Masonski,”she bellowed out, her voice ringing through the crowd, her accent butchering their fine names.

Stringent only gently moved forward, the crowd parting for him more out of fear, rather than respect. When he made it to the stage, he towered over the representative causing her to look up at him in distaste. They shook hands briskly and he moved back, the representative reaching for the female’s bowl.

The woman barely managed to get the first syllable of the name out before Sinestra’s hand shot into the air, her voice carried out into the silent crowd, “I volunteer.”

The woman raised her eyebrow and motioned her forward. The sea of people split again, allowing her to get on the stage, equal height to the woman adorned in black. Sinestra’s cold blue eyes stared into the condescending woman’s, their hands grasped in each others’ grip, Sinestra causing some of the woman’s fingers to pop from their sockets. The woman in black cried out, her uninjured hand holding her wrist as she turned around, running for medical attention.

Sinestra turned to her brother who met her eyes with his violet ones. “Why?” Was all he asked.

“Because,” she stated. “No one looks at you that way without proper punishment, big brother.” She smiled without any humor, a dark glint in her eyes.

Stringent had hoped that old intimidating habit had died with the original Belarus.

 

**District 3:**

He made it to the square in time to hear the president’s speech, not that he payed any attention to it, he despised the fucker. The damned jerk took his brother and everyone else he ever cared for from him.

After the speech, they broadcasted District one’s Reaping, showing a confident looking girl walk onto the stage, her smooth blonde hair pulled back into a braid. She looked into the camera, her piercing blue eyes daring anyone to come after her, it was obvious she’d get a great deal of sponsors just on her stance alone.

Then there came the male tribute, and by ‘came’ there was a shot of the poor man offering up his insides as his friend helped him to remain standing. He’ll be lucky to last five minutes with that performance in the arena, remarked Beadz. After the poor man made his way to the stage the announcer repeated his name, “Flash Venus.”

Beadz stood in his spot, frozen and mouth agape. He didn’t recognize the name but the man that stood on the stage, fear stricken across his face, he knew that face. Usually it adorned itself with joy, his eyes crinkling as a melodic laughter filled the air, making even war seem as if it couldn’t exist. Hell, the man used to sleep with his brother, constantly waking him up as his brother yelled at the smaller man, cursing their houses’ locks.

“Ita-” he breathed, catching himself as someone next to him glanced over, a suspicious look on their face. He gulped. That _had_ to be Italy. No doubting it. _Holy scheiße_ , he thought. He needed to get into these Games, he _had_ to see Italy, ask him where he had been, if he had seen his brother, who that guy next to him was, if they could defeat Panem. His thoughts continued to race at a million miles per second and he didn’t even register that the male’s name had been called. The mayor’s son. The kid made his way to the stage, the specialty oxygen tank being pulled behind him. This was a new low for the Capitol; of course no one was spared, but the kid couldn’t even use his own lungs to walk down a hallway.

Beadz’s hand shot into the air as he shouted, “I volunteer!”

On the screen the representative could be seen raising an eyebrow but he motioned for Beadz to make his way to the stage. As he passes the mayor’s son he patted his shoulder, the young man looked at him with a look of gratitude before making his way back to his parents who had tears shining in their eyes, thanking Beadz for risking his own life for their child.

He only nodded and finished making the journey to the stage. The representative asked for his name. “Beadz Dasauto.” he said, mentally smiling about the joke he made for his last name. No one would get it, but it made him feel better about living here. “So,” began the representative, “why did you volunteer?”

“He shouldn’t have to risk his life any more than he already does,” Beadz stated, motioning to the oxygen tank the mayor’s son held.

“How kind of you,” the man said back, a small smile gracing his altered features. They shook hands and he stepped back, watching the man dressed in green fish for the female tribute’s name. “Coppress Itechna.”

A small girl of what appeared to be fourteen with mousy brown hair and cheap glasses made her way to the stage.

He was finally going to the Games, he thought, arms crossed in front of him, an expressionless face greeting the camera. Finally he was going to meet one of his own kind again. Hopefully.

 

**District 4:**

They made it to the square in time for the names to be called. Thankfully attendance, while mandatory, was loosely established here, meaning you could come out anytime before the first name was called. Peter huffed, he had really wanted to see District one and two’s recaps, he heard people still laughing about the mess the first District’s male tribute had made in their square after his name was called. He knew it was their own fault they were late but he didn’t know there would be an actual show this year. A show of a tribute making a fool of themself, the last great one to do that was Katniss, he thought.

The woman in a mermaid style dress drifted across the stage, and Peter could tell she was almost a foot above her natural height. Why did they always have to alter themselves, what was the point? he remarked.

Michelle leaned down and whispered, “Look at her _heels_ , how can she even stand?”

Oh, thought Peter, she didn’t alter her height with surgery. It was heels. Giant green monsters. That sounded less painful to him (barely). He refocused his attention to the woman as she reached for the glass bowls, her skin reflecting a pale green in the sunlight. “Why do they always try to look like fish at our district?” He whispered to Michelle.

She shrugged, not even looking down as the first slip exited the bowl, the green women's aqua lips forming each syllable as she spoke. “Michelle Tell-f-fairy-e?” She asked, butchering the last name completely.

Michelle rolled her eyes muttering, “Tell-fairy, it’s pronounced Tell-fairy.” Her eyes widened and she looked down at Peter whose blue orbs stared right back at her.

“I think you got picked,” he whispered.

Despite the shock and fear at having been chosen her shoulders sagged at the obvious piece of information. “Really? I had no idea when they butchered my name,” she muttered as she stalked toward the stage, her stomach moving restlessly. She would not pull a District one, she wouldn’t.

She walked toward the woman standing on the stage, she looked bigger up close. Michelle reached her hand up to shake the woman’s, who turned back to the microphone. “Isn’t she a cutie? Let’s get a round of applause for this years District 4 female tribute!” Her voice was also more annoying the closer one got as well. A few people in the audience clapped, the rest just looked on with hatred in their eyes, loathing the Capitol for taking such a young and sweet child, and an orphan none the less.

The claps that came from the few who participated was enough to encourage the wannabe-mermaid to move on with the Reaping. She moved over to the other bowl, pulling out a slip, but similar enough to District two, the representative barely spoke the first letter before Peter was heard crowing in the back, racing his way to the front, “I volunteer!” He shouted, pride dripping from his voice. The woman laughed as the small boy jumped on the stage, “And what’s your name, sir?”

“Peter Bringston, ma’am!” He said, hands on his hips in a Peter Pan-esque motion.

“How delightful!” she cooed. “May I ask why you volunteered?” she said, kneeling slightly to look at Peter.

He turned and looked at Michelle, a fire dancing in his eyes, “For my friend. I can’t let her do this alone, ma’am!”

Michelle smiled softly, opening her arms for Peter to crash into them. As the two hugged the audience sighed, feeling a dull pain in their chests. These two with basically nothing would die for each other, and it broke the audience’s hearts.

 

**District 5** : Info N/A

 

**District 6:** As he sat in his reserved chair on the stage, the Reaping started. The cool air blew past the centuries old skyscrapers, most of them showing some form of deterioration. Haulard closed his eyes, feeling the breeze as it rushed past what used to be the Sear’s tower, now the town’s major hub. Being in charge of transportation, it seemed as if this was the most logical location to host such a production; if only Alfred could see his Windy City still standing, thought Haulard dreamily.

A throat could be heard clearing, alerting Haulard to open his eyes and participate. The time dragged on and finally the recaps were shown. He started to doze after the first girl was called, yet his eyes shot open when he heard the name, “Peter” being announced for District four.

His green orbs landed on the sight of his once ‘son’ standing on the stage, looking ready to take on anyone or anything. Oh bloody hell, thought Haulard. He saw his ‘son’ turn around and hug the girl beside him, seeing his old enemy’s daughter hugging Peter back. “Oh shit”, he cursed.

The other mentor beside him looked over and whispered, “Yeah, I heard they were orphans.”

Haulard’s heart race quickened, orphans? He ran a hand through his hair, trying to think. Were there others? If so, how many? I thought everyone died, how did they survive? Was it like him? Hell, he didn’t even know how he came back, he just did. How could he help them if he had his own tributes to worry about? How could he get them out? Could he pull another Q-, his thoughts were interrupted by the representative pulling the second name out of the glass.

His brows furrowed and he turned his head to see a girl of medium height wearing a dark blue dress had joined the stage. Her hair reached past her shoulder blades, an almost platinum blonde. She turned and saw Haulard staring, her cool blue eyes staring back. He gasped, she looked like Belarus. She couldn’t be, he knew that, because otherwise she would have looked at him with distaste rather than curiosity. They both returned their attention as the boy, Caser Ferry, made his way onstage.

He had to watch the reruns, he decided. Find out who was versing his tributes and his boy. This was going to be an interesting Games…

 

**District 7:**

Turns out he had over a half an hour to get ready by the time he reached his home after he dropped off his final haul for the morning. Hopefully he could get back to work after the Reaping and forget his troubles. Finishing putting away his clothes and tidying up his home, he headed out for the square center, anxious to arrive on time. His old German habits never left him, he noted, making it five minutes before the Reaping was planned on starting.

The anthem played and he made sure to remain stoic, even as the ‘president’ was broadcasted to give his speech, explaining the Dark Days and how this time was even more prosperous than society had ever managed to achieve, a complete and total lie.

When the recaps began, Coppice found his eyes widening at the sight of District one’s male tribute. It was his old ally. He was alive, he managed to survive, how? Why? What? Coppice’s throat made a weird gurgle, he needed to get into the Games, he had to protect Italy. It was what he swore he would do centuries ago, a promise he wouldn’t break twice. That’s when he saw District two’s tributes; the damned communists stood there, ‘Sinestra’ breaking the hand of the representative for probably looking at her brother the wrong way. Even more of a surprise was District three’s male tribute. His own brother. How many of them survived? He began to keep count after recognizing the small boy in District four as the small oil ridge that had once begged for attention, only to be reprimanded by England. There wasn’t anyone in District 5 and he wasn’t able to see 6’s so he added up. So far there were six nations in these Games. He had to get in there, protect his small ally from any harm.

The representative for District 7 pulled out the male’s slip first, “Coppice Timberland.”

Looks like he wouldn’t have to volunteer after all, but the square went into a hushed panic. Coppice brought in the biggest loads and was the best worker out of the entire population. His boss’s son began to raise his hand but Coppice shook his head, hand out telling him to stop. He made his way through the crowd, their eyes begging each other to volunteer, to keep the man that had helped many of their families out by carrying their loads at some point before.

Reaching the stage seemed like an eternity, but Coppice was silently pleased, now he could help his one and probably only friend. The second name was called, Maple Treeves, and he was met with a girl of about sixteen, already built to look like she’ll last in these Games.

But Coppice had already decided who the victor would be, and he wasn’t going to let anyone stop him.

 

**District 8:**

Cecil’s knees quaked in his trousers, fearful of having seen his old ‘comrade’ still alive and well. Even more intimidating was his sister, who broke the representative’s hand. “Oh wow, isn’t that like-” Betsy started to say, cutting himself off after looking at Cecil’s shaking. “Hey, are you, like, okay?” He whispered, arms around Cecil’s shoulders, trying to coax him into relaxing.

Cecil could barely nod. The names were starting to be called, male’s first. “Hey, its probably not going to be y-” he tried to say, interrupted by the name.

“Cecil Raus.”

“Well, fuck.” Muttered Betsy.

Cecil made his way to the stage, still shaking, but for a whole new reason now. It wasn’t just that his old oppressor was alive, no, but now he would have to _verse_ him in a death match. When they parted ways the last times things hadn’t gone well. This was going to be interesting.

He couldn’t even shake the representative’s hand he was so terrified. They moved on, picking the female’s name.

Betsy wouldn’t allow this. He raised his hand, announcing himself to be a volunteer and sauntered forward to the stage. He looked like a girl, sounded like one, acted like one, so they assumed he was one. “What’s your name?” the rep asked, eyeing him up and down.

“Betsy,” he told him, “Betsy Ross.”

The man nodded and motioned to the tributes. “District 8’s tributes! Let’s have a round of applause!” There was some. They were taken into the main office building, getting one last look at the brick buildings that made up their District.

 

**District 9** : Info N/A

 

**District 10:**

His brows furrowed as he watched the recaps, how many of them had survived? Was that even them? The first one had to be Italy, no matter what. By the third District’s recap was played Antonio decided that he was going to volunteer to protect his past love’s little brother. He didn’t even notice that Italy’s old ally, Germany, had volunteered he was so resolute that he was going to volunteer to protect him. He didn’t even have to volunteer as his name rang out into the crowd, it was almost as if it were the _Encierro_ again as he ran up to the stage. He waved out to the crowd, a bright smile on his face, his emerald eyes dancing with mirth as he looked at the camera. He was going to make sure _el tomate norte_ would survive the Games.

 

**District 11:**

How the fuck did he not save his brother was all Grist thought as he saw his brother throw up all over the people in front of him. Creel snorted at the display of Feliciano’s reaction to being picked. Grist elbowed him, causing him to shut up and return to paying attention to the rest of the recaps. What kind of a name was Flash? thought Grist. Well, his mind continued, he does live in the District where they name their children stupid names like ‘Glitter’ and ‘Sparkle.’ His brother was smarter than he remembered, actually thinking of blending in with the Districts, all for the sake of survival.

He saw the sunflower bastard and his sister on their respective stage and Grist decided that he was going into these Games, there was no way he was letting anyone harm a hair on Feli’s head. When they showed District 7’s tributes he made it official that he was going in, he wouldn’t let that potato bastard anywhere near his brother, even if his brother probably trusted the blond oaf more than his own blood relative.

Instead of needing to volunteer they called his name. He didn’t even hear his name get called, he had to be pushed forward by Creel, who wound up grabbing his elbow and dragging him to the stage. He was shoved on and the entire crowd broke out into cheers. Stupid bastards, he sneered at the audience, seeing how they all celebrated that the town’s person of interest was probably going to finally die and therefore rid them of him for good.

The representative held out a hand and Grist smacked it away muttering, “Bastard.” He stepped back, arms folded and he pouted. Fuck them all, he was gonna win. Then he remembered his brother and his body relaxed a little. He wasn’t going to win, he was going to make sure his brother did. He stood straighter, arms firmly placed in front of him. Looking down, he saw Creel stare back up at him, a little thumbs up pointed at him below Creel’s gun. Smiling faintly, he became more determined than ever to try and survive for his people than in his entire essence of life.

 

**District 12:**

“How did they survive? How did so many survive?”

“I don’t know,” Curey rushed back, trying to keep his voice at a whisper as Antonio walked out on District 10’s stage.

“I thought they were dead!”

“Me too, you think I’m not shocked? ‘Cause I am!”

“Do you think that maybe-”

“I don’t know, but we should stay out of this.”

“But-”

“You don’t always have to be the hero, Alfred.” Curey hissed back, his brother a mere inch away from his face.

“Its Quarry, Curey.” He hissed back. Curey’s eyes widened. “And I’m not being a hero, I just want to find out what’s going on.”

“Me too,” he said, not paying attention to Effie pulling a slip out of the bowl. “I just don’t think we should get involved.”

The people around them glanced back on occasion, fearful of any reprimandation that may take place for not paying attention. “Who said I was going to go?” Countered Quarry.

“You did!” he almost spoke out loud. “Well, you implied it at least.” A girl named Gardenia Ikatza walked onto the stage, having been chosen to represent the female tribute.

“So?” Quarry said, using his height to cause his brother to back down a little.

“So, don’t do things that aren’t necessary.”

“But they’re our friends, we have to help them, Curey.”

“No,” he grabbed one of Quarry’s wrists, pulling it down. “We don’t”

“Yes, we d-”

“Curey Soot?” Effie called out again. “Is he here?”

“Shit,” Quarry straightened and looked back at his brother. “Can we get involved now?”

Curey stood there, then started to move forward, only to be held back by his brother. “You’re not going, got it?” He said, walking forward, raising a hand, announcing his service.

Curey ran forward to try and stop his brother, but was held back by some of the others in the crowd. “NO!” he shouted, tears jerking into his vision, streaming down his face. “QUARRY!”

Everyone in the audience remained silent, watching Quarry stalk to the stage, forced to listen to his brother’s broken cries for mercy from a God no one believed in anymore. “Please!” He begged, struggling to break the ever increasing hold the other citizens had on him. “Let me go! I’ll do it! Don’t let him volunteer! PLEASE!”

Effie stood there, remembering a similar scene that had taken place around 11 years prior. She turned to look at the only remaining victor, a look of sullen grief present on his face, and they shared a moment, remembering the past. She turned back, “I’m sorry,” she squeaked into the microphone. “But he volunteered.” Her voice broke.

Curey’s sob echoed through the silent square, his voice bouncing off the walls, burning into everyone’s ear drums. “NO!” he cried.

Quarry made it to the stage and grabbed the microphone from Effie, who backed up with little grace. “Cure, stop, please stop.” He spoke into the microphone.

“Then get back here!” His brother shouted back, voice already tearing up from the stress placed upon each word.

“You know I can’t.” Can’t let you risk getting harmed, his mind finished.

“Yes you can!” He screamed. He began turning, frantically searching. “Someone! Please, someone else volunteer! Please!” He begged.

“Curey, stop.” Quarry said, voice stern. His brother looked back up at him, face covered in tear lines that washed away the common ash of the District. “They need you, be brave.” Quarry said and stepped back, handing the microphone to Effie. “Here.” he muttered, standing next to Gardenia.

She took the device and brought it to her lips, “Here are the Tributes,” she said over the muffled and broken sobs of Curey. “May the odds be ever in their favor,” she whispered, voice threatening to crack. No one applauded as the tributes were taken inside the Justice building, the only sound was the broken sobs of Curey, begging for his brother to be spared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Shamefully walks out onto my own platform* Hey, wow, I feel like I took forever and I know how awful that waiting feeling is... I hope the fact I'm updating on a holiday makes up for it... Anyway, hope you enjoyed the drama! Next is the train and I will stop using everyone's perspective since it takes so long for me and I don't give everyone their proper amount of time anyway. If you guys want specific perspectives let me know and I'll try! *Raises a fist in mirth* Enjoy your holidays everyone! 
> 
> *Trips off the stage into Italy's mess* I deserve that....


	3. Trains and Beauty

** Flash (N. Italy): **

 

He hadn’t really expected that outcome for when he was saying goodbye to Flare, the urge just came over him and there was Flare, so he went for it. He was mainly just thankful Flare hadn’t stormed out or cursed him or, even worse, wished he had never met him. Hopefully Flare didn’t think much of the kiss and just brushed it off as Flash just not knowing if he’d ever love or see his friend again. His mind kept replaying the kiss; he didn’t like Flare that way, right? Either way, he was just glad that Flare hadn’t turned him away.

Boarding the train, he saw that it was very spacious, not something one would expect for a train, unless you belonged to District one, where everything was expected to have some form of grace. Once it took off, Flash noticed that it flowed very smoothly, much like one of Japan’s bullet trains he rode while visiting his old friend. Instead of the chandelier bringing a sense of beauty Flash felt an empty pit at the bottom of his stomach as he thought about his lost friends.

He made his way over to a plush couch near a corner television, its channel focusing on the stream of the other Districts as their Reapings played out. He sat down on one of the plush cushions, sinking into the furniture. Coruscate glided behind him, tsking, and walked out of the car, presumably to go to her quarters.

“Lunch will be prepared soon,” said the representative as he walked about the cabin, looking for a certain glass. “You’ll meet your mentors as well,” he said, picking up a wine glass.

Flash nodded and turned his attention back toward the television as the second District’s reaping unfolded.

 

** Stringent (Russia):  **

He and his sister had boarded the train directly after their reaping, seeing as no one wanted to wish them luck, not that they cared. Once aboard, they made their way to the table and took their places, the representative nowhere to be found.

“It’s good she’s gone, isn’t it, brother?” Sinestra said, reaching for a glass filled with water.

He grunted in response. He really didn’t like the idea of her going into these Games with him. It wasn’t that she couldn’t handle herself that he was worried about, it was that she wasn’t a good influence on him, always encouraging a superiority complex to be placed on any and all life. He also didn’t like the idea of her staying behind in the District without him either so he lost either way, but this was a safer way to lose in his opinion. A tall man walked into the train car, sizing the pair up and looking at the empty seat.

“Where’s Fusia?” he asked, pointing at the seat across from them.

Sinestra smiled as she took a drink, a darkness burrowing in her features. “Perhaps you should ask a doctor.” She stated after finishing her sip.

He raised an eyebrow and was interrupted by Stringent, “Just watch the rerun later, da?”

The mentor looked confused but nodded, sitting down across from them, next to the empty seat. “So,” he began, a smile forming on his lips, “let’s get started, shall we?”

Both the siblings smiled back, one with a look of kindness that didn’t suit his face, the other smile etched without humor, a darkness emanating from her being.

 

** Michelle (Seychelles):  **

Most of the train ride consisted of Michelle watching after Peter, making sure he didn’t break any of the glasses and that he wouldn’t mention the past having that stuff. That would make for awkward dinner conversation. They ate most of their meal in silence, Michelle having steamed halibut with a side of jasmine scented rice.

“So,” their mentor, a small woman with a heavy build said in between bites of her meal. “You two are orphans, right?”

Michelle paused in the middle of a bite, glancing at Peter who paused on his soup, “Yeah, why?” She finished her bite and swallowed without tasting much of the meat anymore.

The mentor just shrugged. “Just making dinner conversation.”

“Interesting way,” remarked Michelle, returning to her meal.

“How did it feel to kill all those people?” asked Peter, his spoon left in the soup bowl. “Especially that one kill where you methodically ripped open the tribute’s stomach with a hook and disemboweled them, saving the intestines for ‘sausage.’”

The mentor choked a little on the fish she had in her mouth and took a swallow of the water before her. “I’m sorry,” she gasped out, “what?”

Peter shrugged. “Just making dinner conversation.”

Michelle took a sip of water. _Take that_ , she thought.

The mentor, Katrina, smiled faintly, her eyes narrowed. “Clever,” was all she said.

The rest of their meal was finished in comfortable silence.

 

** Haulard (England):  **

Immediately following the Reaping, Haulard was taken to board the train. After entering the main car he went over to the television, sitting on one of the three overstuffed couches in the area. He continued to surf through the channels, hoping to catch glimpses of the already announced tributes and watch the rest of the Reapings live. Only when a gentle hand touched his shoulder did he turn, his eyes meeting the blue ones of the female tribute.

“Lunch is ready,” she said.

He nodded, turning back to the television, trying to watch the ninth district’s Reaping. She sighed and started to walk away. “Wait,” Haulard rushed, turning around to grab her arm to stop her. “What’s your name?”

She furrowed her eyebrows, pulling her arm gently from his grasp. “Trais Convey,” she told him, “the female tribute for District 6. Didn’t you pay attention?”

He blushed slightly, hands fidgeting with themselves. “Not really,” he admitted sheepishly.

She rolled her eyes and walked over to the table, greeted by Caser whose plate was already half-way full.

Seeing that he would probably have to wait until a little bit later to watch all the reapings, Haulard made his way over to the table, grabbing a pitcher of hard tea on the way. Time to talk business, he thought, pulling out a tall glass and filling it three quarters of the way and pushing it to the side. After filling his plate with some specialty meat and taking a few bites he began to drink from the pitcher, his trainees staring at him with blank eyes. “What?” he asked. He pointed to the tall glass beside him, “I’m limiting my intake, see?”

Caser shrugged, returning to his meal greedily. Trais just looked at him with growing concern. “Piss off,” he muttered into the pitcher. Her brows furrowed and her lips pursed, but she returned to eating, giving Haulard some peace for his drinki- thoughts.

 

**Grist (S. Italy):**

The feast laid before him and the other tribute, Rosemary, was one of the most bountiful Grist had seen in literally over a century. There was so much food, and it seemed as if everyone but him were piling their plates high. Grist unconsciously rubbed at his elbow which had been manhandled to get him to enter the damned train. He figured that the peacekeepers usually guided tributes away to make sure they didn’t run, but Creel came on the train, seeing that he was a, well, a ‘special case.’

“You should eat,” Creel said, standing beside him.

His stomach responded as he eyed the fruits closest to him, but he didn’t want to eat. All he wanted to do was get to the Capitol and finally see his brother after so many decades believing he had lost him. Finally he grabbed what looked like an apple but was sweeter, a nectarine, he noted, and nibbled slowly, too anxious to enjoy his ‘meal.’

“Hey,” Creel whispered, kneeling beside Grist. “Aren’t you going to eat more than that? Usually you bitch about having nothing.”

“Tch,” Grist responded. Sighing, he put the fruit down, “I’m just a little nervous.”

The representative looked over at the two whispering, his eyebrows furrowed. “Aren’t you going to eat? It’s going to be awhile until we get to the Capitol.”

Grist looked back, face blank. “Bastard, won’t let me eat.” He said, pointing at Creel as the other man stood up. He was swiftly smacked lightly on the back of his head with the butt of the gun.

“He’s nervous.” Creel responded, voice deep to sound ‘professional,’ as he called it.

Rosemary snorted into her meal, causing everyone at the table to look at her. She looked up, innocence on her face, “What?” she asked. “Him? Nervous?” She chuckled lightly, causing the mentor to look over thoughtfully while the representative smiled back. Grist’s frown only deepened. She saw his look, “Hey, it’s just weird. You, of all people, being nervous for a game that involves murdering others.”

Grist stood up, legs smashing into the table, causing fruit and drinks to fly to the ground. “You listen here, you little b-” he roared pointing at her, death in his eyes. Before he could finish his thought Creel had grabbed his arms, pinning them behind his back, and forced him down to the ground. His face smacked into the ground, a loud thud echoing through the dining car.

Rosemary ‘tsked,’ stepping around the mess and over to the door. “See,” she called back, turning in the doorway. “He’s a menace.” The door slammed and footsteps were heard as they went further into the belly of the train.

The representative grabbed his napkin from his lap, dabbing his lips lightly before standing up to announce, “I’m going to go check on her.” His footsteps grew smaller as he called after the female tribute. Grist saw feet in front of him and he huffed a sigh.

“She’s a bitch.” Was all he said to the feet. His arms were shoved further into his back, causing him to gasp.

“That doesn’t mean that you throw a fit during din-”

“Yeah, she is.” Interrupted another voice.

Grist tried to look up before giving up. “Who the fuck are you?” Another shove.

“Hey, let the man up.” Said the voice. Creel loosened his grip slightly before helping the smaller man up. Grist’s eyes met the almost golden irises of the mentor guiding them. The winner of the 80th Games spoke again, “I’m your mentor, show more respect, if possible.”

Grist’s eyebrows furrowed, ‘if possible,’ fuck you too! He thought. Gallard, the mentor, stepped back, hands drawn behind him. “I agree with you if you’re thinking she provoked you. She had no right to accuse such mannerisms, unless…” He drew off.

“Unless what, bastard?”

Gallard pursed his lips. “It’s a term of endearment for him.” Creed said behind Grist.

Gallard raised a brow, “Unless, she’s right.”

Grist growled, “She may have been right but she had no place to provoke me!”

Gallard smiled slightly, hard golden eyes staring back at hazel ones. “So what did you do?” The dark-skinned man asked.

Grist managed to slip his arms out of Creel’s grip, turning back to Gallard. “Nothing,” he muttered.

“Doesn’t sound like ‘nothing’ if it set you off like that.”

“Well, if you lived in District 11 you would know!” He shouted back.

Gallard furrowed his brows, “How long ago was it?”

“Five years,” muttered Grist, turning to the door.

“I wasn’t living in the District the entire time that year,” Gallard called out.

Grist turned back, shit, he was in the Games then, so yeah, he wasn’t there, he thought. He only shrugged. “I’m sure plenty of rumors have been told. They probably have it on the news if you’re really curious. A tribute that almost got the death sentence.” He muttered.

He walked out the door, no one stopping or following him as he made his way to his room. _Always alone_ , he thought.

 

** Quarry (America): **

Quarry just wanted to eat and go to sleep. His final meeting with his brother physically and emotionally drained him, leaving him feeling hollow. Unfortunately, they had an hour or so until dinner was being served. An hour that was spent in awkward silence, the sounds of Haymitch drinking scotch breaking the silence on occasion. Quarry surfed through the channels, sitting on a plush chair, watching every rerun. He kept looking back at six’s, one of the mentor’s just had this familiar look, but he couldn’t place from where. He gave up as Effie walked in, announcing that dinner was ready to be served, trying to remain cheerful after the day’s tensions.

Sitting at the table was also awkward, but it held small conversations. “So,” Effie began, fingers tapping Gardenia’s hand lightly. “Are you excited?”

Gardenia stared back at the overly blue woman, an incredulous look on her face. “Sure,” she muttered before shaking her head, returning to her meal.

Effie looked away awkwardly, placing her stare on Quarry. “Was he your brother?” she asked quietly.

Quarry swallowed slowly, nothing in his throat. “Um, yeah.” He murmured, gently prodding at his food.

Haymitch was shaking his head slightly, taking another sip of his drink in his silent warning. Effie continued on, however. “Is he okay?” She inquired.

Quarry scratched at the bridge of his nose, wishing he could disappear like his brother used to. “Sure.”

“Are you?”

He looked up, a tired expression decorating his face.“Sure,” he sighed.

She nodded, finally deciding not to press on. “Are you okay?” Quarry asked her. “I mean, I know we don’t look like much and you guys haven’t had any luck on tributes since, you know. Them.”

She pursed her lips, Haymitch lowering his glass slowly, gray eyes looking into blue. “You may just want to finish your meal.” He said.

Gardenia excused herself, leaving the dining car and a clear plate behind. They continued to eat in silence, Quarry excusing himself minutes later. The other adults nodded in response, letting him go. He went to sleep that night hearing the small weep of Effie, crying about how terrible of a representative she was.

 

**Haulard (England):**

His mouth hung agape as he finished watching the reruns. The bloody git’s alive, he thought, along with eleven others. One of them being almost like a son.Two of them being his own tributes that he had to watch over. How the fuck was this going to work? He took another shot, placing the empty glass on the table beside him, only to have it placed in the hand of Trais, disappointment in her eyes. “You know that it’s rude to leave your mouth open?” She said.

Haulard closed his mouth immediately. Damn, he thought, it was. And wasn’t he a gentleman? One that didn’t start his sentences, even mental ones, with _conjunctions_? As he silently scolded himself, Trais took his glass and put it on the table, taking the seat on the other side of him. He glanced over at her, noticing her blue eyes shine behind platinum hair; he tried not to shudder at her uncanny resemblance to that slavic nation, who was another damned tribute. “What?” He asked dully. “Nightmare? Get used to them, they’ll never leave, assuming you live.” He said, reaching for his glass again.

“You’re a jerk,” she said, snarl on her lips.

“That’ll never leave either,” he said, tipping his head back to accept the drink. Only it was empty; damn he forgot he already drank it. Now he looked like a bloody fool.

Trais reached over, yanking the glass from his grasp and stood. “Hey!” He called. She pulled her arm back and threw the glass across the room, the empty container shattering against the wall. “HEY!” He roared, standing next to her now.

She turned and slapped him, leaving him to stare confused at the floor. _Holy fuck she slapped me_ , he thought. She grabbed his shirt by the cuffs, bringing his face to hers. “We are going to go to slaughter and all you’re going to do is stand around and sass us? We want to _survive_ you bastard!” Tears streamed her face as she yelled at him. He tried to pull back but her grip tightened, icy blue glowering into emerald. “Do you even care? You are a fucking _hypocrite_ ,” she snarled.

Haulard managed to remove her hands from his shirt, dusting himself off after being freed. “I do care, but what do you want me to do? Hm?” He said, arms flailing.

“Help us,” she stated. “Guide us, make sure we get sponsors and give us tips.”

He took in a deep breath, no tribute had gotten this upset with him since he started this ‘job’. “Fine,” he muttered.

“Thank you,” she said, turning around to walk back to her quarters.

Haulard was left in the dark, the television giving the room a dull glow. “Well, fuck,” he muttered, grabbing a new glass. If he was going to go to drastic measures, he figured this might as well be the game for it.

 

**Flash (N. Italy):**

The sound of wax ripping off leg hair wasn’t as interesting as the pain that followed it. Flash hadn’t done this in over a century since he neither had time nor the money to do it, and it seemed as if that break would turn against him as his teeth ground into the cloth pressed between his lips. The last paper was placed in the trash and the prep team made him stand, finishing him up with a stinging lotion that soothed the pain over time. “Your skin is so beautiful,” one with turquoise hair said, rubbing excess lotion onto her apron.

They heard a scream echoed from down the hall, it seemed as if he wasn’t the only one being waxed. The woman turned back to him, a purple smile meant for him on her lips. “You’re also a very obedient and quiet tribute, much easier to deal with.” The other woman behind him sprayed his back with perfume, making him smell like lilacs. She turned him and finished spraying his front.

She looked him up and down, turning to her associates, “He’s officially done. Let’s give him to Trina.” The turquoise haired woman walked over to the door and let the the orange skinned man out, then the yellow body-suited woman who declared him done. Turning back one last time, she told him to just wait there and wished the best of luck.

As the door slammed shut Flash turned in a circle to look at the prep room. It wasn’t that big, but it was full of waxing papers, creams, brews and other strange liquids. He wondered how the other nations must be handling this mess, if they were okay. He sighed, thinking about how the first program he saw after lunch showed his old-presumed-dead friend walking up to a stage, trees surrounding the land. Tears brimmed his eyes again as he thought about how much he just wanted to hug him again.

He considered taking a small siesta while he waited for his stylist to come in, fatigue standing by him seeing as how he barely slept at all last night. If one could even call when he did lose consciousness that.

The door creaked open and Flash turned toward it, wiping the tears from his face. He didn’t want to go through the whole ‘prep’ again.

A tall slender woman stepped forward, shades over her eyes. She wore an abundant amount of fur: a vintage mink coat, what looked like zebra skin for a vest, deerskin boots with high heels, and even cheetah patterned pants. It looked as if Animal Planet payed her to represent the world’s animals. It was tacky, Flash noted.

She lowered her shades slightly, purple contacted eyes gazing over his body, resting on his lower half. Flash was used to being naked; he slept naked, lazed around naked, even walked around naked when it was hot out. But this woman’s stare made him feel truly naked. He now understood why his old friend, Japan, was so adamant about him wearing clothes. It was very awkward to not have them. Wasn’t there a robe in here somewhere?, his mind faintly thought. He cringed back from her look, hoping she would stop soon. When she did, she returned her shades to their original position and walked toward him.

With each step she took forward Flash took a step back until he bumped into the table, preventing him from retreating further. “Come now, child.” Spoke the stylist, kneeling down slightly to look Flash in the eyes. She reached out and placed a hand under his chin, keeping him from turning his head. His heart rate began to rise as he tried to keep his breathing stable, this woman was very intimidating. And he was once allies with a Nazi.

“So,” she continued, “I’m Trina, I’ve been here for three years. Always get good reviews and you can trust me to make you pretty.”

He nodded slightly in reply, not wishing to speak.

She lowered her hand and he could see her eyes shift slightly under the lenses. “How do you feel,” she said slowly, as if carefully planning each word. “About angels?”

Flash’s eyebrow rose, “Like, believe in them?” He asked, thinking back to his Catholic faith.

“No. How do you feel about them?” She asked again, fiddling with his iron cross necklace.

He reached up, tugging the necklace from her grasp. He didn't want her touching his token. “They’re okay, why?” He asked, eyebrows furrowing.

She tilted her head. “Just checking.” She said, walking back toward the door. “I’ll be back,” she said before the door shut behind her.

Flash took a deep breath, thankful she was gone. He continued to look around until she returned, a clothes rack being pulled behind her. His eyes widened as he saw what hung there, it was beautiful. “Am I?” He started to say.

“Yes,” she said, smoothing the few wrinkles it had. Trina turned back to him, “Ready?”

All he did was nod as he walked over to the rack, excited to wear his opening outfit.

 

** Stringent (Russia):  **

He made no noise as they ripped each hair out of his body, save for his head. Neither did his sister, who laid on a table next to him, separated by a curtain. His sister had refused to be in any other room besides his, and thanks to her performance at the reaping, no one objected.

They stood next to each other, a loose robe covering them both as they waited for their stylists to finish describing their outfits. “Since you both are from District 2, which has masonry, we decided to add small flecks of steel like glitter to the skirt and scarf, so if you go one wa-” The stylist stopped talking as she saw Sinestra raise her hand. “Yes?”

“Masonry is stone work, not metal.” She said coolly.

The stylist raised her brows, looking at her partner who shrugged in response. “Well, um,” she stammered. “It’s an easy mistake?”

“Sure,” replied Sinestra, her eyes staring daggers at the woman. “Go on.”

The woman continued on with her detailing and Stringent didn’t pay attention. He only thought about how nice it was going to be to see his old Baltic nation…

 

** Michelle (Seychelles): **

Of course. Of course they would make her wear that. It wasn’t much of a surprise since that was one of the only thoughts the Capitol had when they thought about her District. Her body still stung from all the ripping and tugging it had gone through. She knew that beauty came with a price, so playing for her life gave her an entire body makeover.

She sighed, getting off the table and walking over to the light blue dress. She grimaced, looking at each sequin, every detail screaming tacky. She could only imagine what Peter was being forced to do, she just hoped he was being a good sport about it.

She turned to her stylist, a fiery smile splitting their dyed face. “Let’s do it.” She sighed, defeated.

Her stylist squealed, clapping his hands repeatedly. “This is going to look so good on you!” He basically shouted. Michelle smiled slightly, humored by the overly-excited man.

“If you insist,” she said, stepping into the dress.

 

**Cecil (Lithuania) and Betsy (Poland):**

Betsy was thrilled. He was finally getting the makeover he had been craving for decades. It was finally going to happen! He was going to look and feel so fantastic!

Cecil could hear one of the members of Betsy’s prep team scream from the room over. “I thought you were the female tribute!”

Cecil snorted, this was going to be fun.

Betsy stared back at the purple woman. “I am.” He said.

“Then why do you have one of those!” She cried, pointing at Betsy’s ‘extra leg.’

“Um…” He stalled. “I was born with multiple parts,” he lied. “It’s really rare.” Now that was the truth.

She furrowed her brows, but nodded. “That’s really weird, how do you survive?” She asked.

Betsy blinked at her. She was, like, completely dumb, and that comment was coming from him. “I get by,” he said.

The woman pursed her lips in pity, nodding her head slightly. “That must be rough.”

“Yeah,” was all he said, silent through the rest of the prepping.

When they finally finished, they brought in his stylist, who brought in his outfit. “Now, we put in a lot of thought and we think that this will be perfect for your District,” the stylist said, trying to get the outfit out if its cover.

Betsy clapped his hands, excited for the reveal. “I am like, totally thrilled and can’t wait to see it!”

The stylist smiled, finally getting the costume out of its hold. “Ready?” Betsy nodded furiously in response. “Here!” Shouted the stylist, proudly showing the outfit to the tribute.

Betsy’s smile began to twitch before screaming. “ _What the **fuck** is that?!_ ”

Cecil snorted as another paper was ripped from his leg. This was definitely going to be a fun opening.

 

  
**Grist (S. Italy):**   


“So you’re the temper-mental one who needs constant supervision?” His stylist asked, a coy smile placed on her face.

Why did everyone want to push his buttons lately? His eyebrows furrowed and he growled, “Maybe.” He could hear the faint tap of Creed’s gun on the wall warning him not to try any more defiance. He’d had enough at breakfast.

“Just checking,” she sang.

Grist’s eyes continued to narrow at the peppy woman as she brought in his outfit. He was going to look like a pizza boy. “Hell no,” he said after seeing the hat.

The stylist pouted, “We’ve been wanting to try the new technology for it for a couple of years now. Besides,” she pointed at him, “its what the other tribute is wearing.” She smiled at him for any further ‘persuasion.’

“Oh, in that case,” he began, hand over heart, sincerity on his face. “Fuck no.”

The stylist looked irritated now. “Well, it’s either this,” she pointed back to the costume. “Or you go out naked, the only thing on you being some cherries to keep your nipples warm.”

Creel snorted at her compromise.

Grist took that argument into consideration. It was very logical and wise of him to wear that undermining outfit, but was it worth it? After a moment of considering his options he nodded. “I’ll wear it.”

The stylist clapped her hands, raving about how he was going to be ‘super cute’ and he was definitely going to be remembered.

_As an idiot_ , his mind added. Looks like it was going to be awhile before he saw his brother, since he sure as hell wasn’t going to see him while in that.

 

**Quarry (America):**

Quarry sat on the prep table, completely dirt free after what felt like hours of work. He kept looking at his hands, they hadn’t been this clean since before the world war. The Capitol truly was a magnificent place to be. A true shame he was here for the Games.

The door opened slowly and a plain looking man maybe an inch from his height entered the room, gently shutting the door behind him. He had a thin line of golden eyeliner decorating his eyelid. Quarry felt himself relax in this man’s presence. “Your Cinna, right?” He asked, remembering his face from interviews.

The man smiled softly, eyes crinkling gently from years of smiles and worry. “Nice to know I still have fans.” Was all he said.

“I remember you from your first year. Amazing work.”

“How old are you?” asked Cinna.

“Twenty-one. This was supposed to be my last year.” Quarry answered. “But,” he shrugged. “You know.”

“You sacrificed yourself. A very respectable and heroic act.” Quarry perked up a little at ‘heroic.’ “That’s a long time to remember my first year.” Noted Cinna.

“Its kinda hard to forget ‘the Girl on Fire.’” Quarry replied.

Cinna nodded, looking at Quarry closer. “Do you need those glasses?” He asked, pointing at the faded lenses Quarry had fought to keep.

Quarry nodded. “I only feel safe with this pair too, so don’t get any ideas in removing them.”

Cinna smiled, drawing back to look at all of Quarry again. “You’ll be very nice to work with,” he said, walking around him.

“Thanks?”

“Mhm,” replied Cinna. “You ready for your costume?” He asked, tilting his head slightly.

“Sure,” Quarry shrugged.

Cinna brought in a bag, gently putting it beside Quarry. “Go ahead and take it out,” he motioned to the bag, grabbing a few brushes and colored powders from the makeup stands around them. Quarry took out the outfit, gasping at its design. Cinna turned, the needed supplies in his hands. “It’s not the ‘Girl on Fire,’ but,” he shrugged.

“It’s amazing,” Quarry said, looking back at Cinna. “Should I put it on now?” He asked.

“Well, if you want to wear something to the opening, then yes.” Chuckled Cinna.

Quarry smiled, starting to put on the amazing costume. Then he paused. “Wait, I thought you were the female tribute designer?”

Cinna looked back after opening a few of the containers. “The other stylist and I agreed to switch every two years.”

Quarry nodded, resuming in putting on the outfit.

 

** Haulard (England): **

Haulard paced throughout the halls looking for one man in particular in one specific setting. Technically he didn’t have to be down in the docking bay until a half an hour before launch so he was fine, but it didn’t help that his prep team insisted on following him. They said they finished, the stupid gits. He took another swig from the beaker he found, rubbing the excess liquid off his lips.

“Sir!” One of the smaller people squeaked. “Your makeup!”

Haulard scoffed. Like one drink would make a difference on what appeared to be fifty pounds of foundation caked onto his face. “Yeah, so?” He retorted, turning a sharp corner. He had to lose these, people. It was bad enough they forced him into the same outfit as his tributes instead of an actual suit.

“And your hair!” Cried another, long hair flying behind her as she ran.

Somehow they managed to tame it, somewhat. He didn’t care however, he needed to meet with this man. They needed to discuss a few things before too much went down. He was a little limited on time. “I’m like the fucking White Rabbit,” he muttered, checking his pocket watch. He felt sick holding the same item used in his games, he’d have to polish it soon.

He rubbed at his brow, freshly plucked thanks to his stupid prep team. Stupid wankers, he thought, wiping some excess makeup on his ‘suit’. He was closing in on the place he said he would meet with the man, and his prep team still trailed behind him, begging to fix everything before he went out into the public’s face.

He huffed, turning on his team, raising the beaker above his head. “GET OUT, YOU BLOODY LEECHES!” He screamed, threatening to throw the glass at them. The smallest stomped, the petite man marched away, deeply offended even though he had no clue what the insult meant. The other two stayed, one with hands on hips, the other arms crossed over her chest.

Hands-on-hips replied, “Not until you let us fix your hair.”

His eyes narrowed on her and he lowered the glass. Tipping the beaker towards him, he threatened to spill the drink all over the ‘suit.’ “I’ll do it,” he said. He had with other drinks and outfits, this wasn’t anything new.

Arms-over-chest gasped, “No.” She breathed.

“Oh, I will,” he said. “And you don’t have any other things to put me in. I’ll go out naked if I have to.” Another thing which he had done. The two left of the prep team looked at each other, then ran off, not wanting another spectacle like that again.

Haulard sighed, taking another chug of the fermented blue drink. He turned to the door, straightening his tie before entering.

“Hello,” a voice spoke from behind a desk.

“Hello, Wilfred.” Said Haulard.

“Is it time?” asked Wilfred.

“I’m afraid so,” sighed Haulard. “Are you ready?”

The outline of a man stood up from the chair, walking over to Haulard. “It’s about time, isn’t it?” He asked.

“I guess so,” Haulard answered as Wilfred shut the door, preventing anyone from coming in and listening to their conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has been a long hiatus, hasn't it? Enjoy this guys. Feel free to comment below and tell me what you think. This was written nearly two years ago, I'm only just getting around to posting old works. Thanks for reading guys.


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